


you can see it with the lights out

by bellawritess



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bants, Coming Out, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, It's not a big deal though, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Roommates, i dont think the fic says so just take my word for it, idk why there's a question mark that's literally what it is, roommates to lovers?, sorta. it's not. it's. yeah, there is no angst in this fic i can promise you that, they're sophomores in college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28185336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: “No, Luke,” Michael interrupts. “Calum’s not my boyfriend.”It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but from Luke’s face Michael can see clearly that it has. “What? Since when?”
Relationships: Michael Clifford/Calum Hood, background lashton also
Comments: 23
Kudos: 46





	you can see it with the lights out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Woahsos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woahsos/gifts).



> wrote this fic for the club fic exchange, for the very wonderful and amazing [peyton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woahsos) !!! i hope that you like this my love, i did my very best to write something you'd enjoy i love you lots
> 
> big fucking shoutout also to [hazel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightblackholes/pseuds/allsassnoclass) who organized the thing, hazel you are not only incredibly competent but fantastically intelligent and your patience is honestly off the charts i can't believe you didn't contract a hitman on me (unless you did and they're just very bad at their job.....hmm) and i just love and appreciate you a lot and everything you do xoxo
> 
> final shoutout goes to (any guesses? anyone? bueller?) miss [sam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellingatbabylon/pseuds/yellingatbabylon), who let me bitch and moan about the many many iterations this fic went through before it became This and was extremely helpful in figuring it out i love ya
> 
> also, idk if any of you writers have this problem, but i Know things about the 'verse that i created for this fic and i have no idea if i Know them because i put them in the fic or because i decided them and then DIDN'T put them in the fic. so here's a brief: the boys are sophomores (except ashton but he's not even in it so dw about him), michael and calum are roommates this year and were also roommates last year, which was when they met, uhh yeah i THINK all the other important stuff is covered in the thing so. yeah. okay cool onward
> 
> title from you are in love by taylor swift

“I’m going to drop out of school,” Calum announces.

Michael looks up from his book. “Great. I’ll join you.”

“Great,” Calum says. “We should move to the coast or something.”

“Sounds good,” Michael agrees, watching Calum drag his feet to his bed, kick off his trainers, and crawl over his comforter to collapse face-first into his pillow. “Not a good day, I guess?”

“Oh, no,” comes Calum’s muffled voice. “It’s a great day. I’ve had a fantastic day. I love being put into a group with the same people as I was in a group with last time we did group projects, even though last time I was the only one who did any of the work and this time I know it’s going to be the same.”

“Oof,” Michael says in sympathy.

“Especially love learning that I have a paper due tomorrow that I literally did not know about until class today. That was awesome.”

“Yikes.”

“And on top of all that, the smoothies place in the dining hall was all out of the _one_ smoothie that I actually like.” Calum turns his head to look at Michael. “So. Great day.”

“Sounds like it’s been amazing,” Michael says. “Well fortunately for you, I have nothing due tomorrow, meaning I have no work to do tonight.”

“How’s that fortunate for me? I have to write my entire paper.”

“What class?”

“Fucking Early Shakespeare,” Calum grumbles. “It won’t be hard. It’s just so annoying that I didn’t know. It’s like, he could have — my professor, I mean, he could’ve _communicated_ and just sent _one_ email being like ‘Hey, my syllabus is insanely out of sync and doesn’t actually have correct due dates for any of my assignments, so don’t forget you’ve got this paper due soon’ and I would have known. Fuck. I _hate_ him.”

“Oh, I hate that,” Michael says, wrinkling his nose in sympathy. “That’s the worst.”

“He _sucks._ ”

“He sucks. But hey, bright side: the paper won’t be hard. Right?”

“It’s just a stupid reflection paper on _Troilus_ ,” Calum huffs. “Which, like, whatever. I can complain about _Troilus_ for five hundred words. Like, it’s not a long paper.”

“Still really annoying, though.”

“Yeah. Exactly. Annoying.”

“Well,” Michael says, pressing his lips together. “Well, what about this: you write your paper and I’ll get us some ice cream from the dining hall, and then when you finish, we can watch some — whatever you want.”

Calum sighs, eyes closed. “Yeah? Watch what?”

“Whatever, you choose, I don’t care. We can just hang out and chill.”

“Hah, chill,” Calum says, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “‘Cause ice cream. I get it.”

“Oh my God, that was so bad it’s not even funny. That was awful.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said it, not me.”

“I would _never_ make a pun that bad.”

“Basically all you do is make bad puns.”

Michael smiles. He can hear in Calum’s tone a bit of levity that hadn’t been there before, and that means he’s fixing this. “We can’t have our chill ice cream until you write your paper, Cal. Better get to it.”

Calum sighs again and opens his eyes, meeting Michael’s. “Fine,” he says. With an almighty grunt, he slides off his bed, straightens up, and takes a seat at his desk, where his laptop is open but asleep. “I’m doing my paper. Go get ice cream.”

“Yes sir,” Michael says, forcing already-tied shoes onto his feet and shrugging on a zip-up sweater. As Calum starts hitting buttons on his laptop to wake it up, Michael grabs his key and ID card and heads for the door. Before he leaves he turns to Calum, who’s slumped over the desk, looking tired and frustrated. “You got this,” he says, pointing at Calum. Calum raises a disbelieving eyebrow, but a small smile creeps over his face. 

“I know, I know,” he says.

“You got this!” Michael repeats, grinning. “Okay, I’m getting ice cream.”

“Love you.”

“Love you. Work hard. Love you!”

The door shuts behind him, and Michael calls the elevator.

It’s not warm anymore, but not too cold yet; it’s only early October, and Michael figures sweater weather will comfortably last another month at least, and beyond that he can stretch it out probably an extra week or two. Either way, he’s going to have to, because he doesn’t have a winter coat at uni. Not that he’ll need a winter coat. If the weather progresses as it has been, Michael will do just fine with his hoodies and long-sleeved shirts until he gets to go home for Thanksgiving.

Anyway, if he needs something warmer he can always borrow something off Calum. They’re past the point of asking, and Michael is pretty sure Calum has been nicking things out of Michael’s drawers and not returning them, but he’s been doing the same so he can’t really say anything about it. It doesn’t bother him, Calum wearing his clothes. He prefers it, actually. Calum looks much better in Michael’s clothes than Michael does.

Michael zips and then unzips his sweater just for something to do with his hands until he reaches the dining hall. Calum’s last class goes until half six, hence his late return to the dorm. The dining hall is open until nine, so when Michael walks through the doors he makes for the pasta station and puts in an order for himself. He can eat dinner back in the dorm while Calum writes. Michael hadn’t seen their school’s performance of _Troilus and Cressida_ , but Calum, a drama student, had been obliged to go with his class. From his reviews, Michael doesn’t have the impression it had been a stellar production, but in a way that will make Calum’s paper easier. Michael knows from experience that it’s much easier to criticize something at length than to sing its praises.

When his number is called for pasta, he retrieves it, then opens the ice cream freezer and takes a pint of cookie dough ice cream. On another moment’s reflection, he also grabs a bag of Doritos — they’re Calum’s favorite chips and it’s that kind of night — then pays.

Re-entering his residence hall is only mildly challenging with one hand, but he manages it. Quietly, he twists his key into the lock of their dorm. Calum is typing away at his computer, headphones in. Listening to one of those instrumental study playlists. Michael could check, but he doesn’t have to. He already knows that’s the only kind of music Calum can listen to while doing work, because anything with words will distract him.

Calum doesn’t acknowledge Michael’s return so Michael doesn’t say anything, just puts the ice cream in the fridge and sits down on the floor to have his dinner. The fridge won’t keep the ice cream frozen, but hopefully Calum will be done soon enough that it won’t matter. Michael twirls his linguini around a fork and digs in, shuffling some music to play quietly from his phone while he eats.

There’s a comfortable not-silence for fifteen minutes, broken by Michael’s Spotify playing chill pop music and Calum’s fingers flying over his keyboard. Finally, just as Michael’s throwing out the now-empty container that once held his dinner, Calum sighs, tugs off his headphones, and leans back in his seat. 

“Done?” Michael asks.

Calum runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “Done.”

“Alright,” Michael enthuses. “Well done, Cal. Proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Calum sighs. “Please say we can have ice cream now.”

“Of course we can.” Michael opens the fridge and takes out the ice cream. “Cookie dough, obviously. And I got you Doritos as well.”

“I fucking love you,” Calum says fervently, throwing himself down onto the rug next to Michael. Their shoulders brush. Michael reaches on top of the fridge and pulls down two plastic spoons.

“For you,” he says, handing one to Calum. “Let me grab my laptop.”

“You’re my hero, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Calum laughs a bit as Michael unplugs his laptop and sets it on the floor in front of them. “Okay, what are we watching?”

“I said you choose,” Michael says. “It’s your Hell Night, you pick the entertainment.”

“Wow, a true gentleman,” Calum teases, leaning into Michael. He’s already opened the ice cream and taken a bite; now he holds it out for Michael. Obligingly, Michael follows suit. Calum hands the ice cream off to him and opens the Doritos. “Alright. Then you know we’re watching _Survivor._ ”

“Fuck yes,” Michael says. “I’ve been dying to watch the next episode since we left off.”

“Mike, I will literally watch _Survivor_ at any moment of any day,” Calum says, still tilted against Michael’s side. He’s warm and solid, although he’s trapping Michael’s right arm.

“Okay, I know, but still.”

“I’m so glad you’ve joined me on this train ride to hell,” Calum says loftily, clicking around Michael’s screen until he finds Hulu. Michael laughs as Calum loads up their episode. “It’s so much better to have company.”

“Well, I’ll always keep you company.”

“Yeah,” Calum hums. He takes another bite of ice cream and then leans his head against Michael’s shoulder, so Michael shifts to make Calum more comfortable without sacrificing the use of his arm. “Honestly, Mikey. Thanks. You’re the best.”

Michael feels himself smile. “I don’t know,” he says. “That would mean you’re only second best, and that can’t be right.”

“Okay, you’re second best.”

“Hey, fuck you, you’re not supposed to agree with me!”

Calum giggles and wraps his left arm around Michael’s right. “Okay. We’ll call it a tie. Equally the best.”

“Anytime,” Michael says, though they’ve mostly moved on from Calum thanking him. “What’s a roommate for if not a good binge-watch after a stressful day?”

Calum hums, and Michael doesn’t need to look to know he’s smiling. They both are.

It is usually the case that Michael smiles when Calum does.

* * *

On Saturday, Michael gets lunch with Luke.

Luke is in his astronomy class, and is in fact the only redeeming factor of his astronomy class, because the professor is both ancient and monotonous as hell. Michael doesn’t really know what they’re learning in class, but Luke has cottoned on surprisingly well for someone who spends half the class trading increasingly badly-drawn sketches of planets, stars, and their boring professor with Michael. Their standing Saturday lunch date is both a social call and an academic one; Luke catches Michael up on the class material, and Michael catches Luke up on the gossip of the music department.

“Hey,” Luke says, waving as Michael sits down at their usual table outside the dining hall. They won’t be able to sit here much longer, but the weather has been nice so far, and it’s always empty because most people sit inside. 

“Hey,” Michael returns, grinning. “What’d you get?”

“The usual,” Luke says, showing Michael his sandwich. “And I see you got your usual as well.”

“Be honest,” Michael says. “If I showed up one day and _didn’t_ have pizza, wouldn’t you be concerned?”

“Extremely,” Luke says. “Though I’m already concerned for your, uh, blood pressure? What negative effects can pizza have on you?”

“None. Pizza is scientifically proven to be the best food in the world.”

“Yeah? Can you give me a source on that?”

“New York Times.”

“Right, of course.” Luke laughs and shakes his head, and they both dig in. Conversation ceases for the moment as they work on eating their lunch.

“So,” Luke says around a bite of his sandwich, “what’s going on with you? How’s your week been?”

Michael takes a second to mentally review his week. “It’s been a week,” he says, huffing a laugh. “I’ve had worse. I’ve definitely had better. Although I really can’t complain, because Calum’s classes are kicking his arse.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean, his drama professor is shit, right?”

“Oh, who does he have?”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Why, you think you’ll know him?”

“I have friends in drama,” Luke says defensively.

Michael concedes with a tilt of the head. “Uh, James something or other. They’re just supposed to call him James.” Luke hums. If he recognizes the name, he doesn’t make any indication. “Anyway, the syllabus for the class doesn’t actually say correct due dates for any papers.”

“Oh, that’s the _worst._ ”

“Right? Anyway, so he’s having a bit of a week. Doesn’t matter, the point is, I’m not complaining about my workload.”

“That’s fair,” Luke says. “Glad I’m not a drama major.”

“You’re a maths major, though,” Michael says. “Which is objectively much worse.”

“Hey!” Luke narrows his eyes, then sighs. “Yeah, no, you’re right. It is.”

Michael laughs and finishes the last of his pizza. The grease clings to his fingers, so he grabs a napkin and wipes them off. “What about you? What’s going on?”

“Oh, the usual,” Luke says. “My neighbors have become constantly and unbearably annoying, though.” Michael grimaces in sympathy. From long tirades, he’s familiar with Luke’s awful neighbors and their total lack of respect for quiet hours. Not loud enough to draw the R.A.’s attention, just loud enough that Luke can hear them through their shared wall. Luke doesn’t want to complain to the R.A., despite Michael’s regular encouragement that he do so, but it might just be getting desperate enough now. “I feel bad that I keep asking Ashton if I can stay over, because he’s always got, like, a million things to do, but — yeah. You know.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t mind,” Michael says. “He’s your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, but.” Luke frowns and wrinkles his nose. “Still. He’s so stressed. Music ed is fucking stressful, man.”

“I know,” Michael says. “Why do you think I’m not doing it?”

Luke shakes his head. “I’d take all that work over shitty neighbors any day, though. But like, he says that having me around makes him more productive, so whatever works, I guess.”

“Ah, romance,” Michael says, smirking. Luke reaches across the table and smacks him. Michael laughs, and then Luke laughs, and then they quiet down and Luke hums thoughtfully.

“At least we’re not both in the arts,” he says. “I can’t imagine having a boyfriend who was in, like, science.”

“That’s because maths and science are both terrible,” Michael says. “Having a boyfriend in the arts wouldn’t be so bad to me.”

Luke snorts. “You have to say that. Your boyfriend _is_ in the arts.”

Michael mentally screeches to a halt. “Huh?”

“Drama is one of the arts,” Luke says, entirely misunderstanding Michael’s confusion. “And you’re in music. Look, I know music ed isn’t as straight-up arts as maths, but at least it’s not STEM —” 

“No, Luke,” Michael interrupts. “Calum’s not my boyfriend.”

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but from Luke’s face Michael can see clearly that it has. “What? Since when?”

“Since _when?_ Calum’s straight!”

“ _What?_ ” 

“He doesn’t — he’s straight, bro, I don’t know how else to say it.” Michael wouldn’t get that wrong, because he remembers Calum saying it, the tone and inflection and everything, remembers exactly where they’d been when he’d said it (Michael declaring that _I mean, objectively Colin Firth’s fitter than Hugh Grant, you have to agree_ , Calum responding with _sure, as much as a straight guy can agree with that, I agree)_. It’s not a big deal — like, Michael doesn’t care, right, it’s Calum’s right to be straight same as it is Michael’s to be gay — but Michael’s never forgotten, for whatever reason. 

Luke eyes Michael carefully. “Are you sure?”

“What the fuck do you mean, am I _sure?_ ” Michael echoes, rolling his eyes. “Yes, he’s definitely straight.”

“No, I mean like.” Luke crumples a napkin in his fist and tosses it into his now-empty sandwich basket. “Are you sure you’re not his boyfriend?”

“Luke,” Michael says, with a small, incredulous smile. “I love you, but what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well, I don’t know! Up until right now I thought you guys were dating!”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Luke says dryly, “the way you look at him? The way he looks at you? How having lunch with both of you feels like I’m literally watching the end a romantic comedy? Maybe because you talk about him like you’re in love with him?”

“He’s my best friend.”

“What, and therefore you can’t be in love with him?”

“And _therefore_ , of course I talk about him like I like him,” Michael says, shaking his head. “I do like him! As my best friend!”

Luke drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I’m not saying you can’t have friends, mate, but have…like, have you heard the way you talk about Calum?”

“Are you trying to convince me that I’m in love with Calum, or that we’ve secretly been boyfriends this whole time?” Michael asks flatly. “If I was in love with Calum, I would know. And we can’t be boyfriends, because the boy is _heterosexual._ ”

Luke makes a face, like, _I don’t believe that but it’s none of my business._ Michael doesn’t like or trust that face at all. “This is a lot to process,” says Luke. “I can’t believe you’re not together.”

“I can’t believe you thought we _were_.”

“You sound awfully defensive,” Luke says shrewdly. “It’s not like you’ve got an _actual_ boyfriend.”

Michael is tempted to say _not for lack of trying_ except that it definitely is for lack of trying. Well, it’s at least partially for lack of trying. There are plenty of cute guys at uni, including in the music department, and if Michael were looking for a relationship, he’s pretty sure he could make one happen. It’s not that Michael doesn’t have options; he just doesn’t really want options.

He doesn’t really feel like he needs a relationship, lately. And that’s fine by him. It certainly makes his life less complicated.

“Fuck off,” he says belatedly. “I’m not defensive, I’m just not dating Calum.” He laughs quietly. “Dating Calum. God. I can’t believe you really thought that. How long have you been thinking Calum was my boyfriend?”

“Honestly?” Luke says with a wry smile. “Since the first time you mentioned him, mate.”

“What, seriously? That’s — that was, like, the first time we spoke.”

“Yeah, _exactly,_ ” Luke says emphatically. “You brought him up in the first conversation we ever had, bro!”

“Well —” Michael breaks off. _You brought up Ashton, too,_ he doesn’t say, because that will really just strengthen Luke’s case. His totally absurd case. Michael’s never even _considered_ — but now that he thinks about it, how many people think he and Calum are in a relationship? Has Michael really never specified otherwise? He’d thought it was a given. Calum is _straight_ , said so himself. It’s not in the cards. And even if it was, Michael doesn’t like Calum like that, so it wouldn’t matter. The whole thing is just laughably unrealistic. Duly, he laughs. “I don’t know what to say. This is insane. Let’s move on, yeah? I’m not dating Calum. Sorry you weren’t with the program until now.”

Luke snorts. “I’m going to need a few days to reboot my brain.”

“In the meantime,” Michael says, “why don’t you catch me up on astronomy? Because I did not get _anything_ on Thursday.”

“Oh, Michael,” Luke says, smiling sweetly. “You’re going to do so terribly once you don’t have me.”

“Just gotta pass this course,” Michael replies with a matching smile. “Come on, help me. Please.”

Luke grins and starts digging through his bag for the familiar blue astronomy notebook.

* * *

They’re in the middle of rewatching _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ when Calum falls asleep.

It’s almost cute, honestly. A few minutes in, he’d leaned his head on Michael’s shoulder, and a few minutes after that had prodded at Michael’s arm until Michael had acquiesced and made space for Calum to curl up against him. His steady breathing has become more of a soundtrack for the film than the music, and Michael is grateful for the captions, because all he can really hear is Calum’s quiet inhales and slow exhales. He knows when Calum falls asleep because he doesn’t laugh at Natasha saying _was that your first kiss since 1945?_ His weight grows heavier against Michael’s chest, and Michael bites down on a small smile. 

Not only does Calum need some rest, he deserves it. The last couple of weeks have been nonstop for him. Michael had never realized just how much work it was to be a drama major, but apparently the Bachelor of Fine Arts degree is leagues more of an undertaking than a regular old Bachelor of Arts. Some of Michael’s courseload makes him want to scream, but at least he has good professors. Calum seems to have been stuck with some of the university’s worst, and all he can do is stick it out.

So Michael lets the rest of the movie play, gently playing with the fabric covering Calum’s shoulder and carefully leaning his cheek on the top of Calum’s head until the credits start to roll. He waits until the post-credits scene has passed before whispering, “Calum. Movie’s over.”

Calum gives no response, but Michael hadn’t expected one. He’s a heavy sleeper and he’s tired, a deadly combination. If it were possible to let him sleep the whole night in this position, Michael would, but Calum will sleep much better in his own bed. And Michael has some work he wants to get finished before he goes to bed.

“Ca-lum,” he sings quietly. “Wakey, wakey. It’s bedtime.”

Still nothing. Michael squeezes his shoulder gently. “Cal, love. You just have to wake up for thirty seconds and then you can fall right back asleep.”

Calum says nothing, but his head moves and then his whole body with it until he’s no longer leaning on Michael. His warmth evaporates, replaced quickly by the chill of the dorm, and Michael almost regrets waking him.

“Sleepy,” Calum mumbles, eyes barely open as he slumps back against the bed.

Michael stretches as he stands up, then crouches back down to be level with Calum. “Yeah. Why don’t you get into bed, then, and you can go to sleep?”

“Hmm, sleep,” Calum echoes distantly. “Okay.” He looks up at Michael, doe-eyed. When Michael offers a hand, Calum accepts. When Michael pulls him to his feet, Calum stands there like a Sim waiting for further instruction.

“Now get in bed,” Michael suggests gently. Calum is funny like this, halfway between conscious and not, and Michael is one hundred percent sure he won’t remember having this exchange. 

“Okay,” Calum whispers. “Then sleep.”

“Then sleep,” Michael agrees, as Calum obediently turns and crawls on top of his bed. He buries his face in his pillow without pulling back the covers, so Michael approaches and begins to draw them back.

“Mike,” Calum hums, tilting his face the slightest amount. He faces Michael, bleary-eyed and barely awake. “Sleep?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “You can sleep.”

“No, no.” Calum’s eyes close all the way, hiding their warm brown behind sweeping eyelashes. “Sleep with me, I mean.”

Michael does a double-take. “I’m gonna sleep in my bed,” he says. “And you’re gonna sleep in yours. Right here.”

“You don’t wanna sleep with me?” Calum sounds hurt. “I’m good sleep company. Promise.”

 _What is happening right now?_ “You want me to sleep…here, with you?” Calum nods. Michael blinks. “Why?”

“Cuddle,” Calum slurs. He opens one eye and gives Michael a look. “Please?”

Michael tries a pros-cons list in his head, but with Calum watching him like that he feels too out of sorts to come up with anything except _I probably shouldn’t_ as a con and _I kind of want to_ as a pro. _Calum wants me to,_ he adds silently to the pros column. That’s two to one, and, well, who is Michael to argue with statistics? “Um…okay, I guess.”

Sleepy delight crosses Calum’s features, and he turns his face back into his pillow. “You can be little spoon,” his muffled voice offers.

Michael would typically prefer it the other way round, but he has to admit there’s something appealing about falling asleep wrapped up in Calum’s arms. Not in a romantic way or anything, it’s just…Calum’s got strong arms and his body heat’s always a little higher than normal, and Michael’s usually kind of cold, and — whatever, he doesn’t have to _justify_ himself, he just can’t find a reason to argue with Calum on this.

Not that he’d have any success if he did. At Calum’s current level of coherence, Michael doubts he could pass the Turing test. 

“Let me get the lights,” he says, in case Calum starts protesting, but he just listlessly slides under the covers as Michael goes and flips the light switch. The room dims, lit only by the lampposts alight on the street below; Michael closes the blinds, too, throwing the dorm into darkness. The light doesn’t bother Calum, but it does Michael.

He retrieves his laptop from the floor and slides it back onto his desk, then contemplates the screen another moment. He’d really hoped to finish one of his assignments tonight after the movie, but now the temptation of sleep is overpowering Michael’s desire to be academically responsible. Nothing is due tomorrow. It’s not a big deal. He’ll finish everything after he wakes up, and it’ll be fine.

He shuts down his computer with a decisive click of the mouse, then shuffles over to Calum’s bed. Calum appears to be asleep, but when Michael approaches he hums quietly and scooches over, rolling onto his side to watch Michael. In the dark, his face is hard to see, but Michael can picture it; tired, deliberate, seconds from sleep. Michael turns on his alarm for the following morning and then puts his phone down on Calum’s desk. “Move it,” he instructs Calum, who huffs.

“I did,” he says. His palm hits the mattress twice. “I’m tired.” In Calum-speak, this means _hurry up_. Michael clambers onto Calum’s bed. They’ve spent quiet evenings doing homework in tandem, both seated up here with their back against the wall, but Michael’s never intentionally fallen asleep at uni in any bed other than his own. Objectively, he knows they’re all exactly the same, but as he lies down under Calum’s comforter he can’t help feeling like this couldn’t be more different.

“I set my alarm,” he says quietly. He waits a moment, but Calum doesn’t move, so Michael leans backwards and looks at him. “Cal, if we’re cuddling, we’re cuddling, alright? Don’t make it weird.”

Calum makes a face at him. “It’s not weird,” he says back. “Move closer so I can reach you.”

Michael sighs and does, and then Calum wraps an arm around his middle and the unexpected contact makes Michael’s heart rate spike.

“Thanks,” Calum whispers. “G’night, Mikey.”

Michael clears his throat. “‘Night,” echoes, and would love to mean it, but all of a sudden his heart won’t stop racing and he can feel every single place he and Calum are touching, and he’s wide awake.

Calum adjusts their position once more, tightening his hold on Michael, before he stills and falls back asleep, and Michael’s heart won’t fucking let up. It’s not only strange but annoying; Michael _is_ tired, but he can’t relax enough to fall asleep, not with his heart kicking up a storm in his chest, all of his senses zeroed in on the warmth emanating off Calum that seeps into Michael’s skin. Michael goes to move his arm and his fingers brush Calum’s, sending a shock through his system. 

He closes his eyes and breathes out unsteadily. It’s been a long time since Michael’s fallen asleep like this, cuddled up with someone else. He must be out of practice or something. This is a sign. He shouldn’t agree to sleep with Calum, or at least not to cuddle with Calum. He’s not going to sleep well if he manages to sleep at all. Lesson learned. In fact, Calum is asleep now; Michael could carefully extract himself and just return to his own bed.

He could.

He should.

He really, really should.

He sighs and burrows further under the blanket. It’s too warm where he is to consider sacrificing, and despite his rogue heartbeat, Michael’s incredibly comfortable right now. 

_It’s just one night,_ he reasons with his conscience, but if his conscience replies it’s drowned out by the pounding of Michael’s heart in his ears. When he finally drops off, he sleeps through the night, cozy and content in Calum’s arms.

* * *

Supposedly, Calum’s doing homework, but Michael has glanced over at him every few minutes for the last half hour and the page he’s looking at has not changed once. It _could_ be that Calum’s just not understanding it, but it’s one of those old Greek plays that got translated into weirdly basic English, and even Michael can parse through those with little difficulty, so he’s pretty sure that’s not it.

Something is distracting Calum.

Michael has half a mind to offer to just read the play aloud, except he’s pretty sure Calum still wouldn’t get any of it. His mind’s obviously somewhere else, and his eyes are unfocused as they stare at the page. For the last couple of minutes he’s been playing with the cuff of his jeans, and Michael doesn’t think he’s aware.

He returns to his own reading, something about conducting that is boring him practically to tears. But he’s barely gotten halfway through the paragraph he’d left off at when Calum _(fucking finally)_ speaks up.

“Hey, Mikey? Can I ask you a kind of personal question?”

Michael draws his brows together and looks over at Calum. “Yeah, always.”

There’s a pause. Calum’s stare burns a hole in the floor, and out of courtesy Michael doesn’t watch him. He turns back to his laptop screen and waits.

“Um…how did you know you were gay?”

Oh.

Michael very carefully doesn’t react. His gaze flickers over Calum but Calum’s still looking resolutely at the floor. Michael glances at the ceiling just for somewhere else to look and laughs a bit. “Uh, I liked a guy.” Calum hums, which Michael takes as an invitation to elaborate. “I was probably twelve? There was this guy in my class — you know, the really cool kid with loads of friends, except…that I was twelve.”

“Ah, yes, the really cool popular twelve-year-old,” Calum says wryly. “Those ones.”

“Shut up,” Michael says, smiling. “Yeah, well, when I was twelve I just thought he was cute. It wasn’t a huge revelation, I guess, if that’s what you’re asking. I had always sort of known that gay people existed, and then I kind of realized I was one of them and that was it. My parents have always been really supportive and all that. I got pretty lucky.”

Calum inclines his head. For a moment he looks up at Michael again. “You never thought you liked girls?”

Michael shrugs. “Sure, I thought I did before I learned what that meant. I thought that the way I felt about girls was what ‘liking girls’ meant. Spoiler, it was not.” He snorts. “Eventually I figured out that the feelings most guys had for girls, I had for boys. After that, no, never. I don’t know. I mean, like I said, I was lucky that I didn’t feel like it was weird.”

Calum is quiet, and Michael doesn’t look directly at him, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Calum twisting the denim of his jeans between his fingers. It’s tempting for Michael to ask why Calum wants to know, but he has a hunch, a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Luke, not speaking but instead giving Michael a knowing, expectant look. _See?_ it says. _Fuck off,_ Michael says back, mentally, and puts all of his focus into patiently waiting Calum out.

“Alright,” Calum finally says. He lifts his gaze to Michael, a small, embarrassed, nervous smile on his face. Bottom lip trapped between his teeth, he adds, “So, I think I like guys.”

“Brilliant,” Michael says. “You’ve made the right choice here.” Calum laughs. “I’m joking, you’ve actually made a terrible choice. All men are garbage. I’ve never met a single bloke who wasn’t a monster. You should’ve stayed straight.”

All Michael knows to do is make jokes, so he’s glad Calum is laughing. Michael laughs with him, and after a moment Calum gives Michael a cheesy smile and says, “You’re saying I’m a monster?”

Michael squints exaggeratedly at him. “I take it back. All men except one.”

The smile across Calum’s face suddenly becomes so real that it almost stops Michael’s heart. “Same to you.”

“All men except two,” Michael rectifies. Calum chuckles. “Well, congrats on coming out. I’m proud of you.”

Calum blushes. “Thanks.”

“How’s the play going?” 

The change of subject drains some of the tension out of Calum’s shoulders. “It’s fine,” he says, even though he definitely hasn’t read any of it. “I mean, not that interesting, but not hard to read. All these old plays are like that.”

Michael’s mind flits back to his original plan of action, and he says, “Want me to read it to you?”

“Nah,” Calum says. “You have your conducting thing.”

“Please,” Michael says. “I am begging you to let me read it to you. If I have to read another sentence of this I will pull an Oedipus and just stab myself in the eyes.”

“That’s not what Oedipus did.”

“Whatever.” Michael holds out a hand. “Come on, lemme lemme lemme! I’m so good at reading, I do the voices and everything.”

“You do do the voices,” Calum concedes, and he yields the book to Michael. “Fine, but can you come sit next to me so I can follow along?”

They move as one to lean against Calum’s bed — their usual floor spot, because the bed provides a backboard and the throw rug underneath makes it more bearable to sit — and when Michael opens up the play and clears his throat to start reading, Calum leans against his side, pressing their shoulders together. Warm and solid as usual, except this time Michael has to take a second, and then another, and he realizes he’s thinking now the way he’d never had to think before, as a person with a friend who could, potentially, be into him. 

When Calum had been straight it had been easy not to worry about that, or — not _worry_ , but be conscious of it, the way he does around other gay guys and even straight girls, because he’s not usually the type straight girls go for but there’s always an outlier — but now Calum’s not straight. And that puts him squarely in the demographic of Might Be Thinking About It.

It doesn’t mean he is, but Michael can’t get it out of his head now.

Fuck.

Turning, he shoots Calum a smile and receives its reflection in response. Okay, whatever. So Calum likes guys now. Michael’s liked guys this whole time and Calum hasn’t been weird about it once. This is manageable. In fact, it’s not manageable because there’s nothing to manage. They’re the same as they’ve always been.

Determined on ignoring it, Michael clears his throat again and starts from the beginning.

* * *

It’s Saturday, and Michael is trying and failing to come up with any excuse at all not to do his ear training homework when the dorm room door slams open, revealing a frantic-looking Calum.

“Hi,” Michael says calmly, pushing his laptop away from him. 

“Hi,” Calum replies, stepping into the room to allow the door to close. “I want to talk to you and I’ll lose my nerve if I don’t do it now, so do you have a minute?”

Panic seizes Michael, and he swallows it down with difficulty. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” Calum’s eyes widen. “Oh, no, nothing’s _wrong_. I mean, depending on what you mean by _wrong_ , but no, nothing is wrong. Can we talk? Can _I_ talk, and you just kind of listen? And then at the end you tell me what you think? I know I sound like I’m freaking out right now, which I’m not. I just spent like six hours at the library and it was all I could think about so I need to tell you.”

“Okay,” Michael says, nerves only mildly assuaged by the notion that Calum doesn’t _think_ anything is wrong. That could mean a lot of things. Calum is also infamous for downplaying the bad and overexaggerating the good, so the fact that he’s doing both right now means Michael is flying blind. 

They know each other so well that Michael feels untethered by this uncertainty, and he doesn’t like it.

Calum crosses his arms. “Okay. Cool. I’m just gonna say it, then, I guess. So there’s a — no. I’m — fuck. This is —”

“Hey, Cal, can you just do a deep breath really quick?” Calum stares at him and shrugs. “I’m listening, but I think you’ll probably find it easier to talk if you’re not making yourself crazy.”

Calum inhales and Michael does it with him, and though it doesn’t really calm any of Michael’s nerves, it seems to soothe some of Calum’s. They exhale together. Calum takes another moment. Ducks his head, waits, then looks up again at Michael. “Alright,” he says. Now that most of the mania has been breathed out of his voice, he sounds very, very nervous. Michael’s not entirely sure that’s better. Calum watches him.

“Alright,” Michael repeats slowly, unsure if Calum is waiting for some kind of cue. “Go on. I’ll listen.”

Calum gives him a thumbs up, which he aborts immediately, tucking his hand back under his arm over his chest. With an unamused, shaky laugh, he says, “I really like you, Michael.”

And then there’s a pause, and Michael finds himself unable to make any expression other than surprise.

It’s good that Calum’s forbidden him from speaking because he’s got no idea what he’d even say. Calum continues, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure, like…I thought I just liked you, like, in a friend way, because I was straight, you know? I mean I thought I was. By the way, I told Mali yesterday and she practically laughed me off the phone. She kept going on about how she totally called it and all that. So I guess I was the last to know?” He’s rambling because he’s nervous. Michael is glad; it’s giving him more time to process. A self-conscious smile, bred mostly by apprehension, paints itself onto Calum’s face. “So I told — no, I said that already. Uh. _Right_. I wasn’t really sure, but then you said you knew _because_ you liked a guy, not the other way round. And I wondered if I maybe just kind of didn’t…realize? But I’m all caught up now. At least, I think I am.” He takes a deep breath. “So…I’d like to believe our friendship is strong enough that it won’t make things weird, but I’ll understand if it does, or if you want a new roommate. I just — I promise not to be weird about it, but I wanted to tell you. Because, um, yeah. You’re my best friend. It would have been weird not to tell you.” Calum breaks off as Michael stands up, and he looks askance at Michael. “Uh…I’m done, if you want to talk now.”

“It’s not weird,” says Michael, staring at Calum. “I’m not going to make it weird, it won’t ruin our friendship, I think I, um?” He shakes his head too, confused by the idea that this might be simpler than he thinks it is. “If we are the way we are, and you like _me_ , then I like you too, Calum. It’s exactly the same for me. It’s always the same.”

Calum blinks at him. “What, really?”

“I’m not going to pretend I’m amazingly in touch with my emotions,” Michael says wryly, drawing nearer to Calum until they’re close enough to touch, “because clearly I am not. But if you fancy me, then that means I must fancy you too, because I know for certain you don’t like me more than I like you. If that’s what it means for you then it means the same for me.”

“I — huh? Hey — you don’t like me more than I like you.”

“I promise I do.”

“Why can’t we just like each other the same amount?”

Michael waves him off. “Fine, okay. So we like each other the same amount. That still means the same thing.”

“So it’s…” Calum blinks and furrows his brow, and then a very hesitant smile crosses his face. “So you fancy me?”

Michael almost says _I think I’m in love with you_ , but he stops himself. With an abashed grin, he says, “Would you believe I’ve fancied you for a long time and only just realized?”

“Yes,” Calum says. “You’re not very emotionally intelligent, as we’ve just established.”

Michael makes a noise of mock-protest. “Fuck you!”

“But if you do, that makes me feel a lot better,” Calum says, blushing. Michael gazes at him in awe, wondering how he’d felt his heart beating like this and the fizzing feeling in his fingertips for this long without realizing just how enamored with Calum he’d really been. Of course it’s Calum. It’s been Calum since the beginning.

“Can I tell you you have beautiful eyes?” Michael says quietly. The blush deepens.

“You can tell me anything you want,” Calum replies. “And you have an enchanting smile.”

“Enchanting, really?” The word choice makes Michael smile, and at Calum’s slight grin he realizes that had been the whole point, which only makes his smile grow. “You’re so lame.”

“Thank you,” Calum says. He unfolds his arms and Michael feels an opportunity unfold with them, but he’s nervous and he’s in love and he’s a moron and he knows that whatever he does will be wrong. 

But either Calum reads his mind, or they're on exactly the same page; Calum cautiously says, “Can, um, can I kiss you?”

“Thank God,” Michael breathes, and he brings both hands up to Calum’s face, pulling him into a kiss, searingly sweet, the kind of kiss that Michael’s only read about, because first kisses aren’t normally supposed to be this Exactly Right. Even the best first kisses are supposed to feel like beginnings, but this one doesn’t feel like a beginning.

It feels like the middle of the story, the ending of one chapter and the start of another. Calum’s arms around his neck, Michael’s palms against Calum’s cheeks, they’re a picture frozen in between scenes.

When Michael hits play again, they’ll probably have to Talk, figure out What This Means for them as friends and roommates, but for now he just keeps rewinding the last three seconds, because if he does it long enough maybe the kiss will last forever.

Maybe that will be just long enough.

**Author's Note:**

> okay thanks for joining me now i will probably be back on my jalex bullshit so i'll see you all in the all time low tag dfgfhsjgklmj but i am, as usual, happy to chat on tumblr [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) so come say hi!! xoxo bye


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